Duncan shook his head. “No, he’s a friend all right. She’s taking him down to the Harrington place at Westbury direct from the dock. One of the stewards on the Mauretania is our agent and he sent us a copy of her wireless to old man Harrington.” “He sounds to me like a sort of smart-set Raffles,” Gibbs asserted. “You’ve got it right,” Duncan said approvingly. “What’s Taylor going to do?” Gibbs asked next. “He’s kind of up against it,” Duncan returned. “I don’t know what he’ll do yet. If Denby’s on the level and we pinch him and search him and don’t find anything, think of the roar that Michael Harrington--and he’s worth about ninety billion--will put up at Washington because we frisked one of his pals. Why, he’d go down there and kick to his swell friends and we’d all be fired.” “I ain’t in on it,” Gibbs said firmly; “they’ve no cause to fire me. But how does this Miss Cartwright come in on the job?” “I don’t know except that she is going down to the Harringtons’ this afternoon and Taylor’s got some scheme on hand. I tell you he’s a pretty smart boy.” “You bet he is,” Gibbs returned promptly, “and may be he’s smarter than you know. Ever hear of R. J.?” “R. J.?” Duncan repeated. “You mean that secret service agent?” “Yes,” Gibbs told him with an air of one knowing secret things. “They say he’s a pal of the President’s.” “Well, what’s that to do with this?” Duncan wanted to know. “Don’t you know who he is?” “No,” Duncan retorted, “and neither does anyone else. Nobody but the President and the Secretary of the Treasury knows who he really is.” Gibbs rose from his chair and patted his chest proudly. “Well, I know, too,” he declared. Duncan laughed contemptuously. “Yes, you do, just the same as I do--that he’s the biggest man in the secret service, and that’s all you know.” Gibbs smiled complacently. “Ain’t it funny,” he observed, “that you right here in the office don’t know?” “Don’t know what?” Duncan retorted sharply; he disliked Gibbs in a patronizing rôle. “That your boss Taylor is R. J.” “Taylor!” Duncan cried. “You’re crazy! The heat’s got you, Harry.” “Oh, indeed!” Gibbs said sarcastically. “Do you remember the Stuyvesant case?” Duncan nodded. “And do you remember that when Taylor took his vacation last year R. J. did some great work in the Crosby case? Put two and two together, Jim, and may be you’ll see daylight.” “By George!” Duncan exclaimed, now impressed by Gibbs’ news. “I believe you’re right. Taylor never will speak about this R. J., now I come to think of it.” He raised his head as the sound of voices was heard in the passage. “There he is,” Duncan whispered busying himself with a sheaf of declarations. Gibbs looked toward the opening door nervously. It was one thing to criticize the deputy-surveyor in his absence and another to meet his look and endure his satire. His collar seemed suddenly too small, and he chewed his cigar violently. CHAPTER FIVE